There has been a lot of truth telling releasing itself in the media and in our daily conversations of late—the one big plus of this tumultuous election. This telling of the truth, this is what begins to change things: from what we don’t like to what we want. This telling of the truth can be freeing and healing, when told in safe space, and when shared with others through the sanctuary of honest care.
It is time to heal the past—has been time for a long time. And we are doing it now.
Telling the truth, and listening to the truth, with love in our hearts, embracing our similarities and differences, embracing our humanity. Together. Through acceptance, forgiveness and believing in our more empowering future. All of us healing, together.
This is a piece of my truth:
Hour-glass. Curves and more curves. I sometimes hate the curves, that’s me.
Twiggy I am not, even though I used to always want to be her, to look like the images on those fashion magazines that my beautiful, sassy, stylish, five-foot-zero Mama—my grandmother, who had plenty of curves—always had about the lake house; and she did always look good in those outfits of hers. You know it’s true, Mama! I can hear her laughing, and an “Awh. Thank You,” slight-smoker’s scruff in those sing-songy vocal chords said with a grin, chin slightly down, demure-like from her new home above... I miss her. We shared one last statement in beauty just four months ago: me and Mama and the curves exposed, letting our bodies show. Me, walking the Midwest strip-mall roads leading to her short-term hospital home, I savagely sported my leather biking jacket, black herringbone print leggings, (every non-linear line on display) and the new nearly no-hair dew—female Buddhist buzz-cut freeing me from the past. My nearly ninety-three years old grandmother adorned her most fabulous smile alongside the free-and-easy of short, pastel, green and pink, two-tie hospital cotton, well-loved arms and legs undraped—perhaps the most stunning look she’s ever worn. “Isn’t it great to be young and free like that,” I heard she told my mom of me a couple days before she rose for the lighter way. Yes, it was great, Mama. Greater than the eyes can see.
Almost 50, indeed there are times I almost love my body, just as it is—a boyfriend who worships my curves has helped greatly in the matter—although sometimes I feel overwhelmed by his appreciation, like I’m some pin-up he snuck into the boys’ room stall. And sometimes, though hard to admit, I like it. Yes, (head up, chest out, back straight, legs long) sometimes, I like that abhorrent, adored attention… the stuff my mother shamed me for when I told her I had sex for the first time (my attempt to connect on the potent, life-changing events of our shared family curves). “You sure were easy,” her response: past atrocities against her curves ruling out motherly affection. Actually Mother, I wasn’t.
You see, it took me years to understand this… too many years, blaming the curves… that when he pinned my legs apart and told me I would like it (a sick cliché), and I told him no (another, sicker unheard one), let’s just say I did fight my friend’s brother: who was cute, and who’s attention I did enjoy, and who I did tell many times that night I would not have sex with him (I wish I knew then what I know now about the affirmative power of negative language); I fought him as best I could! And because I lost my virginity to this attractive, older boy, for years I preferred to revel in the fantasy that it was a positive thing. Until I just couldn’t ignore that nasty nagging of the sadness in my heart: the sadness, and the anger, the frustration, the desperation that wanted to scream “Noooooo. I said NO! A million times no. It doesn’t matter that we flirted, that I kissed you, that I enjoyed your attention, that you made me feel pretty and wanted even though I was awkward and overweight (my teenage stuffed-emotional curves), that I was naïve enough to hang out in your room with you—hang out and neck, not have sex. I said NO!” Sometimes, I still need to feel the power of it, say it for the satisfaction that I now can, that complete sentence, “No.”
Hour-glass curves. I’m not yet sure: gift or gross burden? Men, you tell me. Are you willing to look to my heart first, see it through my eyes, feel the presence of my truth, my love, my desire for connection that travels deeper and longer than your one-off jack-off looking at my curves could ever take you? Or do they have to lower you to the basest animal you excuse yourself to be? Are you willing to rise to your own heart, to feel more than the throbbing that pushed life into us all? Are you willing to know and feel the divinity of your flow? … Am I willing to see it?
Me, Mother, Mama and all the curves want to know.
To Living Sensual!